enly he flung
his arms over her. "Dear--dear--let's beware of I don't know what--of
nothing at all perhaps."

"Oh, buck up!" yelled the irritable Stephen. "Which am I to
shorten--left stirrup or right?"

"Left!" shouted Agnes.

"How many holes?"

They hurried down. On the way she said: "I'm glad of the warning. Now
I'm prepared. Your aunt will get nothing out of me."

Her betrothed tried to mount with the wrong foot according to his
invariable custom. She also had to pick up his whip. At last they
started, the boy showing off pretty consistently, and she was left alone
with her hostess.

"Dido is quiet as a lamb," said Mrs. Failing, "and Stephen is a good
fielder. What a blessing it is to have cleared out the men. What shall
you and I do this heavenly morning?"

"I'm game for anything."

"Have you quite unpacked?"

"Yes."

"Any letters to write?" No.

"Then let's go to my arbour. No, we won't. It gets the morning sun, and
it'll be too hot today." Already she regretted clearing out the men. On
such a morning she would have liked to drive, but her third animal had
gone lame. She feared, too, that Miss Pembroke was going to bore her.
However, they did go to the arbour. In languid tones she pointed out the
various objects of interest.

"There's the Cad, which goes into the something, which goes into the
Avon. Cadbury Rings opposite, Cadchurch to the extreme left: you can't
see it. You were there last night. It is famous for the drunken parson
and the railway-station. Then Cad Dauntsey. Then Cadford, that side of
the stream, connected with Cadover, this. Observe the fertility of the
Wiltshire mind."

"A terrible lot of Cads," said Agnes brightly.

Mrs. Failing divided her guests into those who made this joke and those
who did not. The latter class was very small.

"The vicar of Cadford--not the nice drunkard--declares the name is
really 'Chadford,' and he worried on till I put up a window to St. Chad
in our church. His Cambridge wife pronounces it 'Hyadford.' I could
smack them both. How do you like Podge? Ah! you jump; I meant you to.
How do you like Podge Wonham?"

"Very nice," said Agnes, laughing.

"Nice! He is a hero."

There was a long interval of silence. Each lady looked, without much
interest, at the view. Mrs. Failing's attitude towards Nature was
severely aesthetic--an attitude more sterile than the severely
practical. She applied the test of beauty to shadow and odour and sound;
they ne